And on the Godless Earth We Bleed
by Lady-Gwen-of-Her-Mind
Summary: Cursed he knew he was, forsaken by his gods to dwell the rest of his days drowning in immeasurable sorrow. It was a cruel, cruel punishment. Nor was there another more perfect in design—a lifetime in fear of beauty, a lifetime of hatred, a lifetime of grief—for it too had been His retribution.
1. Prologue

**(A/N)**

_I do not own any of these wonderful characters, save the few OCs. They are all wonderful creations of Mr. Tolkien. I just hope you enjoy the story I have spun for them.  
__Comments are much appreciated!_

_Many thanks to my amazing Beta Reader LavenderCrystalOfRoses!_

It should not have come as such a shock—but the world is a land of monsters, barely hidden beneath the masks of the human visage. It should not have born so much pain—but a land of lawless, godless creatures knows no mercy for the pure, flawless things so fragile and rare. It should not have left such a wound—but the wild beasts never stop scratching, clawing, ripping at the barely-sealed scar, for naught, save the delight to view crimson rivulets of memory running between mountain ranges of mottled skin.

To forget would be a blessing. To die would be the greatest gift. Cursed he knew he was, forsaken by his gods to dwell the rest of his days drowning in immeasurable sorrow. It was a cruel, cruel punishment. Nor was there another more perfect in design—a lifetime in fear of beauty, a lifetime of hatred, a lifetime of grief—for it too had been _His_ retribution.


	2. Chapter 1

**(A/N)**

_Thanks to my incredible Beta Reader LavenderCrystalOfRoses for all her help and suggestions._

_Please feel free to comment! They are much appreciated! I hope you enjoy it!_

_***Thorin is meant to be aged about the equivalent of a 10-11 year-old human child (I would estimate this to be around 18 in dwarvish years)._

_(See below for more information)_

There comes a time to all youth during which they begin to question everything so long held as irrevocable, unshakable truth. They challenge the old order, its firm-rooted prejudices and opinions forced upon the young mind from birth. It is an inescapable element of life, deeply entwined in the very fabric of one's being. At first it may not be understood—nay!—fear it they may, but in time it becomes a weapon, a pleasure. _Rebellion_. Be they mortal or eternal, a child will always, at some point, defy and denounce what surrounding elders had so long been trying to instill.

For Thorin, the first tendrils of insubordination crept upon him at an early age. He had not a whisker on his chin to call his own, worth still untried in battle. These things did nothing to deter the terrible fascination he felt upon first glimpsing the small party of newcomers from his secret look-out spot near the ramparts.

There were seven in all, urging their mounts forward in such a way that _surely, surely_ they were airborne, gliding effortlessly just above the rocky earth. Each wore rather ordinary green or brown cloaks, though the way they fluttered behind the speeding bodies made the trailing shadows dance like butterflies. Low-drawn cowls concealed their faces however, making mystery of new-comers' identities.

As the young dwarf gazed upon the company, his interest in the enigmatic beings escalated ever higher. He _had_ to know more about the creatures on the flying horses. Thorin leant back upon the stone face of the mountain he called home and drew a knee to his chest, allowing the other to dangle out freely into nothingness, as he continued to watch the group approach.

He was puzzled. The riders certainly were not dwarves. Their steeds were much too large, the clothes not of dwarvish fashion. Nor could they be men of the neighboring cities of Dale or Lake Town. The youth had seen and interacted with them enough to know they were nearly as hardy as his own kind, lacking the grace of these before him. Possibly, they were humans from the south, travelers from Gondor seeking council or commission for another golden statue or set of silver and sapphire goblets. It was well known, after all, men from the White City enjoyed an unhealthy love of pomp and want for the "finer" things life had to offer. _Yes, that must be. These were men from the Dunédain capitol._

This ruling diminished his excitement immensely; men, regardless of the lands to which they swore allegiance, were all incredibly dull and contemptuous of Durin's Folk, seeking riches and better trade relations in order to gain said bounty, and concerned with hardly anything else. Nonetheless, despite the distain he felt for them, the young dwarf would be present when the men of Gondor arrived to pay tribute to his grandfather. Much to his antipathy, it was his duty as a prince, and an heir to the throne, to learn how to properly interact in all societies. Including that of drunk lords smelling as if they had never had intimate relations with a bath.

A clattering of hooves stirred Thorin from his thoughts as the band galloped across the cobblestone bridge leading towards the main gate. The youth started from his well-concealed location and expertly descended from the near-parallel rock face to the parapet, where several surprised guards blinked at his unexpected appearance. Thorin paid them no heed—no doubt they would _again_ alert his father or grandfather of his forbidden activities of climbing and spying (at a time when lessons of sums and swordplay should have occupied his attentions), and he would be punished. Hoping to avoid even more disciplining, he had to arrive in the throne room before the men.

Never in his life had he ran so fast.

Thorin had been sorely mistaken with his earlier conclusion of the riders being from Gondor. His grandfather would at least feign civility and interest in the pompous southern folk, if only because of their willingness to pay. No, these beings sent him on a rampage with much more passion than Thorin thought possible. From the moment he scampered through the side-door, the echoing halls made his head hurt with the incessant barrage of angry Khuzdul streaming from the fur-clad figure seated on the dais.

He silently observed the strangers were not yet present. It was likely they had been ordered to remain in the antechamber until called upon—for this, he gave thanks to Mahal. Within his short lifetime, the King's words had started already three wars. He did not want to endure another simply because the Lord of Erebor knew not how to hold his tongue.

By the time Thorin had reached his place near the throne, Thrain was attempting to quiet his father's outburst. "Be still my lord, and listen to reason. I am certain they come bearing no ill-will against our house. It is but a small party, numbering no more than ten. Indeed, that is not enough to even dare an attack." He now noticed his son's excited, wide-eyed glances from the chamber door and to his red-faced grandfather, "Father, look to your right, upon a child of your bloodline. Surely they will not have desire to injure one so young and defenseless…"

"SILENCE!" the king roared, frightening his grandson at his outburst, "I will not have any son of mine desiring to hold council with those foul forest folk! It matters little to me whether their numbers were one or one thousand—their presence is always one of a hostile nature! Never shall it be said one of the line of Durin was a coward, a traitor to his own race, welcoming an enemy into our halls to sup at our tables with our wives and our children, and to lie in our comfortable beds at night! Nay, let us slay the dark-dwelling sorcerers and mount their heads upon the parapets as warning to all their kind to never threaten the dwarves of Erebor another day!"

_Dark-dwellers. Forest folk_. Thorin now knew against what race the King raged: _Elves_. Never before had he beheld one of the fay, nor had any other dwarf still alive—few elves ventured from their grim forests, while fewer still went as far north as the Lonely Mountain. Not since the slaughter of the Gem Wars in the Second Age.

In correlation to what the child knew of the "Firstborn Swine", they were terrible, hulking, nasty beings, worse even than orcs and goblins. They were fierce in face and fight, with a great love of violence and war-mongering. In the stories, elves had rows of razor-sharp teeth, and cat-like eyes the color of blood. These things were the monsters young dwarves were taught to fear. The cradle-snatchers. The dark-lurkers. They were incredibly dangerous. Animalistic. Bloodthirsty. It was said an elf enjoyed ripping helpless creatures apart and wrapping the entrails about its neck as a trophy for pure entertainment, and the pleasure of feeling blood flow over disgusting, scaly skin.

A very small part of him made Thorin want to question the validity of some of the claims. After all, he had read books from the 'time before', the forbidden tomes, well-hidden in the ancient labyrinth of a library, containing the tales of Narvi and Celebrimbor, and of undying lands to the West. But he could say nothing of this, not whilst his grandfather continued his deny council with the riders.

"Do not question my authority, Thrain! I say water the ground with their blood! Then we will be rid of the nasty bastards—none would then dare think us weak!"

Thrain knelt pleadingly beside his sire, "Father, please hear them!"

"Never!" He slammed a gem-encrusted hand upon the arm of his throne, "Send the accursed things back to their dark Master! We'll show them…"

From the small portal to the side of the massive carven door, entered a fearful guard. He approached the throne and fuming king upon it, bowing clumsily, "M-my lord, one of the elves d-demands to speak with you. He c-claims to be their k-king, and I-I would not have t-tolerated his demand, if he wasn't…if he didn't…"

A snarl mottled kingly features. "If _what_ exactly? Answer me, fool!"

The dwarf again found his confidence. "They are unarmed, sire, but laden with expensive gifts! The leader says they have come with sole intent of the reestablishment cordial feelings between our races, and improve trade relations."

"So this _tree rat_ has put you under its spell, has it?" The king regarded the stout attendant with contempt.

"Please my lord! I am under no spell! But the forest folk—they speak of a great evil ever growing in strength and presence in the southern region of their kingdom. They say there are sinister signs, the likes of which have not been seen since the black days of the Second Age, originating from a place called _Dol Guldur_. The darkness is beginning to spread North and East from their wood, towards the civilizations of men. And towards us, and our kin of the Iron Hills. "

"This is what they have come for? To bring gifts and ill news?" For a moment, Thror contemplated this, (while Thorin realized his ears were ringing from all the reverberating shouts), before announcing his decision with disturbingly cheerful countenance, "Send them in. Let us face our enemy and break their peaceful façade. For 'tis my duty to protect my people from threats such as these."

A thrilled shudder shook the small frame of the youth. He, young Thorin, was about to behold the demons of legend. He, son of Thrain, son of Thror, was about to face the beasts of nightmares.

(A/N continued)

-This story, in many ways, could be considered AU, because I have added/altered/deleted many canon elements (and some of the characters).

-I will later explain the reason behind the hatred of the elves the dwarves have harbored, as well as the dreadful appearance stereotype.

-The Gem Wars (non-canon) will also be explained in a later chapter.

-Please let me know it you like it, and think I should continue!

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!


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